


Rock and No Water

by Reymonkey, wugglyump



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Ace is Furiosa's mentor, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Multi, Pre-Movie(s), Roleplay Logs, War Boy Culture, War Boy Furiosa, Young Furiosa, canon-typical dehumanization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 23:15:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4643679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reymonkey/pseuds/Reymonkey, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wugglyump/pseuds/wugglyump
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A full-life girl taken from a Green Place grows up among aqua-cola slaves and half-life War Pups.  The oldest War Boy anyone knows is Ace, and why Valhalla won't have him is anybody's guess, but Furiosa thinks she might just be lucky he's lingered long enough to teach her a thing or two.  In turn, he thinks she's got greatness in her--but he doesn't know the half of it yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Portrait of a War Girl

**Author's Note:**

> This is a lengthy role-play between myself (as Furiosa) and my rl partner (as Ace, and later as Max). In its entirety it spans years leading up to the film as well as a good chunk of time afterwards, and focuses on Ace and Furiosa as a mentor/student relationship, which blends into something closer to father/daughter as time goes on. There is considerable (canon-typical) violence and angst, as well as implications of rape and torture as the story goes on, but there's also a good bit of hurt/comfort and fluff in here, too.  
> Because this started out as a RP log, the pacing is a bit awkward in places. We've done minimal editing; just enough to make the chronology make some sense. Not sure what my updating speed will be for this, but there is a lot of it. A lot.

Raids sometimes take a caravan of War Boys a fair distance from home. Usually it results in slim pickings. A lone scav here and there, maybe a pitiful little camp or a struggling settlement. Good days, though, are when they bump into another gang en masse. Sometimes you can salvage weaponry from a clash like that. Sometimes you can even salvage prisoners.

When the War Boys come in from this latest raid, they’ve caught a trade caravan and they’re ebullient about the unusual success. They’ve collected a handful of slaves, at least half female. Most are in poor shape, underfed and terrified, but might be useful one way or another with a little feeding. The older ones are probably destined to be blood bags, but a few others are at the right age to be fertile. And then there’s the youngest, thirteen years at best. Her left arm is bound to her side with bandages, and she’s barely able to stand, but her eyes are wild, unconquered.

“Think she’s taken a bite out of almost all of us,” one of the older War Boys says when he deposits her in the sickroom. “Weak, though.” He shows a bruised spot on his arm, with a smirk. “Imperator says she’s worth patching; she’s the only full-life in the lot that lived through the fight.”

The physician—a thin, dour man; they call him Sawbones—looks eloquently skeptical, but shrugs. “He know she’s gonna need blood?”

“Yeah. Just do it.”

The girl gets manhandled and dragged to a table, strapped down to restrain her when she fights, but she’s also given blood and has the stump of her arm trimmed and cauterized and sewn into a neat rounded-off end. It’ll stop any further bleeding and ward off infection, and if it doesn’t look pretty they hardly care. Anesthetic is a rare supply, but Sawbones isn’t excessively cruel. They have a little local to spare, and she gets a dose to the arm. It won’t put her to sleep, though, so in the end she passes out from pure shock and exhaustion.

When she does come around things are quieter, and she’s still strapped down but it’s a smaller, marginally softer table. She’s out of the surgery, in a recovery area, and there are soft noises around her. Here there’s a moan- a young high voice, and there a muffled sniffle. When she turns her head she sees a few children of varying ages, one hooked up to a bloodbag as she is, another curled on his side trying to stifle a sound of crying. Another lies insensible with bandages across much of his body.

What’s left of her arm is throbbing. She’s reached the limit of painkillers she’s permitted. But she lies quiet, tilting her head to stare up at the bloodbag. He’s a rough-looking man, but his eyes are empty and tranquil, utterly zoned out, and she quickly decides he’s no threat.

Then a taller shadow moves into the room, past her cot, and on to the crying figure. It’s a man, tall and muscular and painted all in white. He pauses by the boy, and from what she’s seen of men painted like that she could reasonably expect the worst, but he kneels down and lays a big hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Bad as all that, is it? Buck up lad. You know where Axle is, right now?” The low voice is a little gruff, but there’s something warm in his tone.

“N...no?” The boy uncurls a little, swiping an arm hastily across his face, and looks over his shoulder at the man without any real fear.

“Ditch duty. He’s shovelin’ shit with the best of ‘em, right now.” A hint of humor creeps in.

The muscular man registers as a threat to the girl at first. If she weren’t strapped down, she’d be on her feet in a second, pain be damned, and ready to attack (for all the good it would do her; she’d still probably fall over). Except he’s clearly not there for her, and something about the way he talks to the boy reminds her of home. She gives an uncertain little hiss, like a wary cat, but listens.

The big man rocks back on his heels a little and looks over his shoulder, eyebrows rising. He’s not a young man, but he’s not old either, face a little lined and nose misshapen as if it’s been broken badly sometime in the past. His eyes are a muddled pale grey.

“...For certain?” The boy asks, clearly warming to the news, and the comment draws the man’s attention back so that he looks away from her again to give the boy a nod. “Ace don’t lie t’you sprog. And you’ll mend.” He pats the boy’s shoulder. “You’ll be back on the oilcans in no time, and he’s lost garage privileges for a while.” 

That gets a little smile out of the boy, and after a few more reassurances the man tells him to rest, and stands. The boy rolls back over to sleep, but the man lingers to look over the unconscious child with all the bandages before he comes back, moving past her cot again.

She hasn’t been branded or tattooed yet, since they wanted to see if she’d survive before they went to the trouble, but there’s a note scribbled in chalk on the foot of her cot: _Full life. Possibly feral. Taken from Scorps West of Gastown. Intact, less left forearm. Blood A pos._

He pauses there, squinting at the writing on the foot of it for a very long moment. Not everyone here can read, and he’s a step or two above that but he’s very slow at it.

She doesn’t make any noise this time, but she’s watching him like she wants to bore holes through him with her eyes. After a moment of silent reverie, she speaks: “‘s that your kid?”

“...One of my young Blackthumbs, aye.” He tilts his head at her, mildly puzzled by the question. 

“No, I mean...did you sire him?” Good vocabulary usage. Maybe she’s not feral after all.

His eyebrows go up again, and he answers slower this time. “War Boys… don’t sire. Only Ol’ Joe does that.” Technically some of the Imperators have the privilege, too, but that’s more detail than a child needs to know.

She looks around at the various children sacked out in the room. “Busy guy.”

He gives a lopsided shrug- or possibly it’s his shoulders that are lopsided, because there seems to be a lump on the right one. “Well. Some o’ these came from the Wretched, some other places… some brought in like you.”

“ _Ha._ ” She gives a harsh little barking laugh. “Stolen from other thieves. What happens now?”

Some part of her is starved for conversation. Even her mother didn’t talk with her much after they were captured. It wasn’t safe. And he’s here, and he’s not talking at her. It doesn’t make him trustworthy, but it makes him an asset.

“You heal up. We find something for you to do. You get square meals and water.” He doesn’t seem bothered by her wary, defensive attitude.

“...that’s it?” This is clearly not what she expected, and she looks angry about it. She wants to go home, and she wants her mother back, and if she can’t have those she at least wants to be able to hate the people who have her trapped here.

“That’s up to you.” He doesn’t smile, but there’s that mix of gruff and gentle in his tone again. 

Her gaze flicks to the blood bag, then back at him, accusing, but she says nothing, opting to glower instead.

“You’ve got smarts. Use those before you use your fists.” He nods, and moves to leave.

She’d point out she only has one fist to use, but she hasn’t hit that level of acceptance yet, nor does she feel like a friendly joke. She watches him go with a piercing stare, but settles once he’s gone, and finds her away to a sleep that feels somewhat more natural and healing.

 

It takes the little girl weeks to recover and adapt. The arm is painful; if she were stronger and less sick, she’d probably be a hell of a handful. As it is, she bites and kicks if approached the wrong way, and hisses curses no one’s ever heard before. Sawbones runs into a breakthrough, though, when she’s the only one in the infirmary fit enough to hold down a Pup with a broken finger so he can set it. She takes to the task grimly and without pity, but pats the boy and brings him a cup of water afterward.

After that, it becomes clear that giving her work to do, rather than punishments or bribes, is the way to manage her. Ace—she learns this is the big man’s name from her fellow infirmary Pups--may catch her tending Pups or even grown War Boys if he comes by the sick room, but after about a month, after her brand has mostly healed and her hair is cut so close to her head she looks bald, she comes down to the garage with a boy about her age. At a glance, they look almost interchangeable, except she has bandages bound across her chest, and he’s shirtless.

Ace is an infrequent visitor, but when he is there it’s to give a brief pep talk to a sick or injured Pup. In the garage, he’s almost immediately noticeable, being taller than most and relatively surrounded by younger boys. There aren’t many formal teachers in the Citadel, but he’s working on an engine in a way that gives the boys helping a fairly clear view of what he’s doing. Occasionally he barks out an order here and there to put them to specific tasks, and when the girl and the other Pup insinuate themselves into the group he’s quick to put them to work. Instructions are few, but just enough to keep them from hurting themselves and make sure they know what he wants them to do. Learning by doing is very much the order of the day, and he’s a little gruff but when he gives out scolding it’s corrective rather than insulting. 

The Pups clearly adore him, especially the younger ones.

The girl speaks less than any of the other pups, but her eyes are sharp, and she follows instructions quickly and accurately. She arrives alone the next day, and the day after, still silent and attentive, but on the fourth day they’re looking at a motorcycle engine. That’s something she’s seen before, a mechanism she knows on sight much better than a car engine. While he’s explaining one part of the diagnostic process, she leans closer and points to the actual malfunctioning section, silent but insistent, with her one good hand.

“Good. You gonna fix it?” He gives an inviting gesture to the tool box nearby, which the Pups only take tools out of to hand him when asked. Now he’s willing to stand back and let her have her pick to use. He hasn’t treated her any differently from anyone else, thus far, apart from a few considering looks that tell her he’s recognized her from the sick rooms.

She flushes, not sure whether she’s being commended or called out. Either way, she’s not going to back down, though, and she slides down from her perch to study the contents of the box.

“How’s he gonna do anything?” Many of the Pups seem uncertain of her gender, but the ones in the back don’t have much volume control. “Can’t fix an engine with only one hand, stupid.”

She looks up, fierce eyes scouring the group until they lock with the Pup who spoke--bigger and older than her, but not by much. “I can do this.” She makes a rude, emphatic gesture with her right hand, earning a ripple of laughter from some of the other pups.

Then she selects a wrench, reads the sizing, and rises again.

Ace looks over the heads, gaze picking out the boy who spoke. “Could you fix it with two of ‘em? Unless the answer’s yes, shut your gob.” There’s no malice in it, but he doesn’t have a lot of patience for backtalk.

The girl flops onto her knees by the engine, gnawing her lip as she looks it over and clearly painfully aware of how many eyes are on her. Her heckler subsides, though, and no one else seems to be interested in harassing her. Most of them are rooting for her, in fact. War Pups like an underdog.

Still, she clearly struggles to control the tool with the precision needed, until she leans in and clamps her bandaged elbow over the end to steady it, gritting her teeth. Slowly and painfully she loosens the bolt she was going after and extracts a filter that’s clogged with sludge from sand and leaking oil. “Damn...is there a leak?”

Ace makes a quick gesture at one of the Pups for an old tray, reaching over heads and then shoving it under the filter to catch the runoff. “Looks like.” He nods at another Pup that’s been quiet but handy. “Better help pull that out.” 

The younger boy is quick to obey, letting the filter clunk gently into the tray with oil-stained fingers. 

Ace takes the wrench from the girl and offers a rag in exchange so she can wipe some oil away and see what’s what behind the now-removed filter. 

She’s absorbed in the task now, and more relaxed than he’s seen her yet. She hands off the wrench gratefully and switches for the rag, poking and prodding around until she can see inside better. “Ummnn...cracked lines? We used to use gum and leather to patch that, but…” She glances back at the tool kit. “You don’t, I guess.”

He nods firmly, and he’s never big on showing approval, but the nod is a definite signal of that. Now that she’s unveiled the problem, he gets materials and shows the whole group how to patch the lines, cleaning them off first so the repairs will stick and explaining as needed along the way. She’s been a useful part of the lesson, but not singled out so much that it’s going to make big waves. He’s a fair man after all, as rare as that is in their world.

 

 

The younger Pups tend to be corralled to sleep at night, not a formal curfew but a kind of curfew all the same. The girl is just old enough that she’s not strictly held to that, as long as she doesn’t make trouble or get in anybody’s way. Away from the exacting commands of Immortan Joe and his immediate delegates, the War Boys have their own loose rule system and they’re not terribly rigid or consistent about it. Some of the higher-ranking War Boys will give a thrashing to a Pup they think is up to something they shouldn’t be, others will simply give them a shove towards the barracks and a grumble.

The smaller garage they were working in today is quiet after dark, although some of the bigger ones have lamps and torches and Blackthumbs still at work. She’s alone in the dark, when Ace returns from herding a bunch of Pups off to bed. He’s blocking the doorway before she hears him coming and has a chance to hide, and he pauses when he sees her. There’s an oil lamp in his hand but it’s turned down very low or she would have seen it sooner.

It’s the motorcycle that’s gotten to her. It’s the preferred method of transportation for the Vuvalini on the rare occasions they venture from the bog. She rode on Katy Concannon’s once or twice, and looked at the insides a lot more often than that. Working on this one got her to thinking. Remembering.

Now, she’s huddled up with her back pressed against the wheel, staring at nothing. For a moment, when the low light hits her, there’s a glint of tears at the rims of her eyes, but she jumps when she sees him and freezes, going from grief to defensiveness in a fraction of a second.

“...Hunh.” Is all he says, his face its usual blank. He’s looking right at her, but then he just ambles to the nearest workbench and sets the lantern down, turning the key to brighten the flame some. He rummages briefly and pulls out a couple of items that were tucked to the back, out of the way, then comes over and sits down nearby. 

“That healing up okay?” He nods at her arm, but notably he makes no move to reach for it. He’s usually quick to pat a shoulder or rub the head of any boy in need of a brief reassurance, but he’s never made any move to touch her, as if sensing that she wouldn’t be receptive to those casual paternal gestures.

She stares at him for a long moment, all feral nerves again, but about a minute and a half after he sits and speaks to her, she concludes he’s not going to do anything bad. She swallows with a soft click, clears her throat, and says, “Not infected. No bleeding. Still hurts.”

Ace just nods, fiddling with the pieces in his lap thoughtfully, then offers over a small bowl-shaped piece of metal with a hole in the center. “...This fit over the end?” What part it might be is hard to say, but it’s a little scratched and banged up, just an old spare part, but clean.

She frowns, uncertain why she wants to put a tin cup on her stump, but she takes it and holds it up gingerly. “...with some padding, maybe. Straps. What for?”

He plucks up another piece from his lap, an older wrench that one end has snapped off of. “Somebody broke this one today… thought we could wrap the one end so it’s safe to use, then I thought…well, with some tinkering it could fit into that,” He nods at the metal bowl piece, “maybe a socket different tools could switch in and out of…” His gaze on her arm is assessing, now, but it’s exactly the same look he gives to the vehicles, just a puzzle he’s working out how to fix.

She looks down at her arm, at the metal cap, and then raises the left arm, bending and twisting it slowly as if to test whether she could make that range of motion work for her. 

“...I’ll try it if you will,” she concludes after a moment. “It’ll make it stronger.”

Ace gives a mild nod, watching, and offers to take the metal cap back. “Seemed useful is all. I’ll work on it.”

“I’m going to do everything they can,” she says. “And more. One way or another.” It doesn’t sound like she’s giving herself a pep talk. It almost sounds more like a warning.

“Well, if you’re not going to sleep anytime soon, y’might as well clean that oil filter for me.” He’s just as content to recruit her for Blackthumb work now as during a lesson, and he’s going to be up for a while himself, working on her new tool holder.

“Sure.” She rises into a crouch, reaching to drag the oilpan closer. “Do you use guzz or vinegar?”

They always used vinegar. Fuel was in shorter supply in the Green Place than it is here.

“...Could use vinegar. If y’run to the kitchens for it, just tell ‘em I sent you.” His tone says it’s not what he’s used to, but he’s curious to try it. 

She nods, rising, and subtly bumps her forehead against the motorcycle before darting off. Like any other war pup, she’s willing to run anywhere and everywhere, even with her arm still healing.

As it turns out, she takes direction well. She gives her name—Furiosa—at last, and talks about the bikes her mothers owned, just a little, without revealing much of anything else about her history. She’s pretty meticulous, though, with cleaning, and seems inclined to save everything she can for reuse.

Ace settles on a bench and works on the tool holder for her arm, riveting on straps, gluing in padding, working with scraps that won’t be missed. He’s content to listen, asking a few mechanical questions, but mostly just being companionable. His curiosity about where she comes from is low, but he welcomes any tips about helping vehicles run longer out in the open sands. Ace is not stupid, but he is pragmatic and all his cleverness tends to be focused on the practical needs of day-to-day life in the Citadel. 

Furiosa works on the oil filter, which is dirty slow work with only one hand, and he works on the tool holder, and once or twice he calls her over to check the fit of straps. At first he lets her pull it on herself, simply offering it out to her, but it’s quickly clear the straps are going to need to go further up her arm and shoulder at least. He goes to work adding adjustable straps here and there, stifles a yawn as he calls her over a last time. “Try--look at you, black thumb, fingers, and elbow. C’mere.” As soon as she’s close enough he reaches for her but it’s just to rub the oil off her elbow with a rag, then he helps her pull on the padded cap and straps that go up her arm to one just around her arm below the shoulder, with another connected to it that loops around to the far side of her neck and back. 

His hands are steady, not exactly gentle but it’s the same touch he uses when brusquely patting shoulders and heads of Pups. There are buckles to let the straps grow with her some, and once it’s on he sits back and looks with a nod. “See if you can get it on and off yourself, or if I need to move buckles to where you can.” Because obviously he expects her to deal with it by herself once it’s finished.

She tenses when he touches her, but she doesn't flinch or lash out. She also says nothing while he wipes off the oil, just watching and thinking. He hasn't earned quite all of her trust yet, but a hell of a lot more than anyone else in the place has.

She seems able to fit the arm on herself but struggles increasingly as he adds straps, eventually resorting to tugging at them with teeth to adjust them. It works well enough though. Feels strange, but works.

"I like it." She nods when the final product is secured to her.

Ace just watches with that same analyzing-the-engine gaze, and gives a nod. It’s a shame it took so many straps, but the more firmly connected it is, the more leverage she’ll have with it. It’s not pretty but it’s functional. “Good. I’ll keep an eye out for broken tools you can have to interchange on there.” He looks just a little pleased, as if she’s a car and he’s proud of the job they’ve done on fixing up. “And if anyone thinks you made it, let ‘em.” He lays a finger beside his nose and winks. Hints of preferential treatment could cause strife among the Pups, after all. “‘Sides it’s yours now and I expect you’ll do the upkeep and modifications needed.” Ace fights back another yawn, and glances at the cleaned oil filter with approval. 

“Stay on here if you like, but I’m for a few hours’ sleep before daylight…” He gets up and gives her head an affectionate rub the same way he would any other War Pup.

Furiosa stretches the left arm to test the range of motion, giving a small satisfied smile. "Whatever you say, boss," she murmurs very quietly but with significant warmth.

When he pats her she looks up with wide, surprised eyes, but doesn't tense this time. She watches him move off, then says, "Thanks." Just as he reaches the door.

He glances over his shoulder with a smile and a nod, but he’s genuinely in need of sleep. 

 

 

The next day, there is no way for her new adaptation to be missed by the other Pups. They marvel over it, but the general opinion is that it is both Shiny and Chrome. War Pups see older War Boys with various scars and deformities every day, but this kind of prosthetic is unusual. Once they’re maimed, they’re usually on the lookout for a fast ticket to Valhalla. They don’t look for ways to adapt and survive.

Ace himself goes on treating her no different. He’s subtly protective of the War pups that learn under him, and he says he looks out for ‘his’ Blackthumbs, but she’s just another one of them, for the most part. Possibly he doesn’t want to single her out for her own protection. She’s mostly with boys a little younger than her, able to fit in due to physical size, but as they get a little older there starts to be more competition, and sometimes jealousy.

Furiosa doesn’t show off her left-arm adaptation, and indeed seems a little surprised that it’s so well looked-upon by the other pups. She’s very tolerant of them prodding and questioning, though, and even resignedly answers a couple questions about how it happened. Ace happens to catch the story a few times; it’s not unimpressive, and her consistency in how she tells it suggests it’s true. She and her mother were tethered at the back of the line of slaves, walking on foot behind a vehicle. When the War Boys attacked, another car lost control and plowed into the line, and Furiosa ended up with her arm pinned under it. What happened to her mother, she doesn’t say.

The Pups, by and large, can’t relate to ‘mother’ except as someone who provides milk, so they don’t ask uncomfortable questions about what happened to Furiosa’s, which is just as well. She’d rather talk about just about anything else. The grief is still very fresh.

Of course, it’s not too long before the other Pups become aware Furiosa is the odd female among them. She’s not alone by any means, but many girl-pups end up working as servants or the assistants to Sawbones, rather than in the garage. And then, of course, as they start to develop, they run the risk of being shunted into roles as comfort women for some of the Imperators, or even Breeders for the Immortan, if they’re full-life and pretty enough for his tastes. Being different can be a boon or a problem amongst the War Boys, but Furiosa seems equal to the challenge. She works harder than any of them, and she’s not afraid to throw a punch.

In the garages Ace is clearly respected for his skill with vehicles, and there’s a number of youngish War Boys who treat him with the kind of sheepishly fond familiarity that’s come from having learned under him when they were younger themselves. Outside the garages, Ace is less popular with some, and while she isn’t privy to much of the men’s talk she may hear a few comments about his being a coward, or soft. He looks after the Pups more than most do, and it’s earned him a reputation, but he seems to mostly let the occasional jab roll off his broad shoulders. He’s big, tall and brawny, and nobody is in a hurry to pick an actual fight with him.

She doesn’t like to hear the grown War Boys say anything unkind about Ace, but she’s not foolish enough to pick a fight with them. If any of the pups get smart behind his back and within her hearing, they come away bruised, but that’s a rare occurrence. He’s popular with the little ones.

It’s a different kind of incident entirely that gets her in her first real trouble. A War Boy coming in from the front and, high on adrenaline, makes a move to corner her. Whether he’s looking for a Pup to bully, or whether he recognizes her as female and has darker purposes, she doesn’t wait to find out. She hits him with the makeshift prosthesis, as hard as she can, and the blow fractures two of his ribs.

Fighting with minor injuries between War Boys is nothing. Actual broken bones, though, demands a response, and the matter is taken right out of Ace’s hands by the Imperator whose squad the injured War Boy belongs to. 

Water detox is an effective punishment, and requires no use of resources whatsoever. The rationale behind it comes from the Immortan’s own speeches. Water is a great gift, but to the weak-willed it can be an addiction. Some men go mad for it, the Imperators say, lusting after ever greater amounts. The desire for it can make a person feral, make them turn on the war brothers they should respect and serve. Aggressive behavior like Furiosa’s can easily be explained by too much reliance on aqua cola. 

The cure is time without aqua cola or any other liquid, in a tin shed on one of the sunnier terraces of the Citadel. Furiosa is young; her sentence is only six hours. It’s still pretty harsh.

They don’t have to drag her. She stalks willingly after the Imperator, glowering and trying to look braver than she feels.

Ace makes no protest, no attempts at bargaining, just gives her a weary nod when she gets marched past. She’s woozy and unsteady when she emerges from detox, and she swears even more than usual, staggering to rest. Ace makes sure she’s put to bed with a little water and food but doesn’t dare any more preferential treatment than that.

The other Pups her age seem impressed with her, though, and two of her closest contemporaries--Morsov and Rossi--sneak in to see her with a mouthful of extra water rations and a couple beetles for her to taste. Apparently the War Boy she hit was not so popular amongst the young ones. She gives them each an unsteady bonk on the forehead, giggling, quietly.

The next morning she’s expected to work the same as usual in the garage, which is something of a relief. Ace in general treats her the same as he does any other War Boy, helping keep their heads shaved and scolding and yelling them into order as needed, rewarding good work with a pat on the head or shoulder. He’s never sired any children, but he’s a natural father to more than can be counted. 

There are days he’s not in the garage, and his Blackthumb boys are expected to carry on odd jobs there without him, because he’s training older boys to be lancers. Then, too, there are the occasional raids and various war parties where he’s called on to go out. He goes with enthusiastic chanting and salutes, riding as second lancer for any car that needs it, but he always comes back. He’s not bad as a lancer, or they wouldn’t ask him, he’s just bad at dying.  
As they grow, some of the older Blackthumbs ask to go to lancer training with him, and he never turns them down, but some of them come back bruised the next time they’re in the garages.

In the days after her water detox, Furiosa’s tendency to scrappiness does not abate. However, after that experience, she always removes her prosthesis before fighting, and in short order she learns to use that bony stump and elbow to her advantage. It hurts like hell to hit someone with it, but since it hurts the victim as well, she has no qualms. It gets to the point where all she has to do is reach for the straps like she’s about to take the arm off, and a high percentage of her peers back down at once.

In short, she develops a fearsome reputation, and seems to relish it.

She collects scraps continuously, too, to improve the use of that replacement arm. The socket gets improved first, with a kind of vise to hold tools. From there, she starts researching anatomy in Sawbones’ personal library. He lets her, in exchange for taking some late-night shifts and helping him dispose of corpses and parts no one else wants to touch, toting them to the incinerator. Either she has a cast iron stomach, or it’s worth it to her. Or both.

 

And so, Furiosa’s first year in the Citadel passes under the watchful eyes of Ace and his Blackthumbs. It’s a kinder start than many pups get, but her voracity to learn and grow doesn’t change, even as she grows taller and starts to look more obviously feminine.

By the time she’s fourteen, she has a grasping claw on the prosthetic arm, although the grip is weaker than she’d like until she’s fixed it up with a battery. Some tinkering and practicing later, and she decides she’s ready to go to Ace to ask for Lancer training.

When she speaks, he pauses and smears a forearm across his brow, leaving a dark streak. Eyebrows raised, he regards her, and wipes off screwdriver he was using. His grey gaze is inscrutable as ever, but it rolls over her arm slowly, noting the changes. He’s never hesitated to take a boy on to train as a lancer before, but there’s some kind of hesitation now.

She scowls, picking up on the uncertainty. “It’ll grip. Trust me.” Gender? What’s gender? She assumes he’s worried about her prosthesis falling off at the wrong moment.

He sighs and tosses the screwdriver back in the toolbox. “You _aiming_ to be a Lancer, then?”

“I’m aiming to be _able_ to do _everything_. Told you that days ago. Is there something wrong with being a Lancer?” She meant it literally when she said she would find a way to do whatever the War Boys could do. Whether she’s seeking to prove her sex is no barrier or that her lost arm is no barrier, even she isn’t quite sure. She’s just certain she has to be superlative to survive, and she’s going to be.

“Lancer’s…well. It’s kami-crazy, good way to go out big and chrome, but…” Ace flounders. Not for him evidently, but for a lot of War Boys that’s true, and that’s why it’s considered a good aspiration.

Furiosa grumbles. “Yeah, well. I already figured out you can throw them and still have them blow up. You don’t have to go with them.” She’s a little mollified by this explanation, and her tone softens. “Don’t you want to be Witnessed?”

“...Good. Good. Sure I do…” He sounds a little weary, and something else she may not be able to place but it’s not as if he hasn’t been accused of disloyalty and cowardice before. “But will you promise ol’ Ace something, if I teach ya’ to be a Lancer?”

She looks slightly guilty. It was a genuine question, not an opportunity to pick at him, but she’s not sure how to soften the sting now. “Sure, boss. What d’you need from me?”

“I don’t need for nothing, but… I _know_ you’re kami-crazy as the rest of the pups all put together, but you’ve got brains. Don’t stay a Lancer? Promise me you’ll try for Driver, after a bit? That’s the job what takes real smarts.”

She snorts, but she’s secretly flattered. “Everything they can do, I’m going to do. Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere till I get that chance, not even Valhalla.”

He breaks into a smile and nods, and claps her on the shoulder hard enough to make her stagger a little but it’s well meant. “Better not be late for training tomorrow, then.” 

She flashes a pointy little grin and gives him a friendly punch in the upper arm. “Better not go easy on me, either. I’ll be there.”

Being a Driver would rank her above him, if she gets there, but he doesn’t seem to mind that idea at all.


	2. Lancers and Old Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some say a tendency to violence is inherent to a person. Some say it's taught. Furiosa doesn't see why it can't be both.

Ace is big-hearted and tender to the pups, but he doesn’t go easy on the young War Boys, because that won’t do them any favors in the long run. Lancer training, Furiosa knows even before she shows up for it, will be grueling. People might get hurt, and if she’s one of them and gets hurt bad enough, she may not get another chance to train anytime soon. She’s restless overnight, practicing her grip and scrambling around the rock walls of the barracks until the other Pups toss pebbles at her to make her settle and shut up. She goes to sleep with bad grace.

The next day she and a group of teenage War Boys meet Ace on one of the lower terraces, an immense space with soil too poor for gardening and surrounded by too much rock to catch wind with turbines. There is a big car body rigged up on a platform with pistons and levers, on a very short track and operated by a guzzoline engine. Furiosa has never seen such a thing before, and she’s already circling to look it over top to bottom when Ace starts talking. 

The first lesson is how to not get thrown off a moving car, and that’s the biggest lesson there is to being a Lancer. The cab rattles and shakes and lurches as he pulls levers and yells instructions. Ace tells them it’s not perfectly like holding onto a vehicle on the road, but it’s a damn good start, and no one who can’t hold on here will be tried as a Lancer on the road outside the Citadel. Furiosa doesn’t think it looks too hard.

She turns out to be very wrong.

There are eight positions along the body of the training rig, and everyone will have to try every place, because the lurch and rattle of the thing feels different depending what side you’re on. The way-back is the easiest, and then the running-board by the driver’s door. Along the smooth sides is the hardest. The Citadel constructs its vehicles with a few extra hand and foot holds, but too much of that ruins a car’s ability to speed down the road at a storm’s rate, and sometimes the best you’ve got is a seam of metal and a place to put your toes.

She starts out holding on with both her hands, and never does get bucked off the way-back perch. When she’s moved up the side, though, she flies off almost at once, and hits the ground with enough force to knock the air out of her. She’s not the first to fall, at least, but her pride is stung, and she gets up with a glower at the training rig, as if it’s personally insulted her.

“Get back on,” is all Ace says, and she swears there’s a smirk in his voice.

 

She gets flung off again, more than once and hard enough to be sore the next day. Judging from the way the other boys training with her move stiff the next morning, that’s just par for the course. The first couple days, she continues to hold on with her flesh and blood hand and her prosthetic together, but then begins to alternate. When it becomes clear the prosthetic grips better, she uses her own hand almost exclusively, as interested in challenging herself as Ace is in challenging her. All of that means she actually falls off more than some of the others, but she’s learning faster, and getting up quicker each time. She swears when she’s thrown, but soon she starts learning to fall better, rolling across the sand and making it back onto her feet again quickly.

The intensity picks up in time, and would-be Lancers take the hard positions one or two at a time, rather than all eight of the trainees clinging at once. This is important, too; when they’re all in a cluster, they can help one another hold. With no one else to help, they have to rely on their own grip exclusively. A few sessions into this phase, one boy gets thrown off hard enough to scream. Ace pauses the lesson and climbs from the cab, looks over the boy’s arm, and tuts that it’s a break. He sends him off to Sawbones in the care of a Pup, but then he picks right up calling the next boy up onto the cab and continuing as if nothing happened. That boy falls off quickly, pale even under the white paint.

“Is it harder for you, or easier?” Morsov asks her after a lesson, flicking at the metal of her arm so it makes a sharp ting.

She jabs her elbow into his ribs in retribution, hard enough to bruise but not to knock the air out of him. “How should I know? Got nothing to compare it to.”

“Think we’ll both make it?”

“I know I will,” she smirks at him, then sobers when she sees the genuine fear in his eyes. “Don’t be like that, Morsov. You’re strong, no lumps-no bumps yet. You just have to keep sharp and hang on and you’ll get there.”

“Yeah? Well. I’m not gonna be climbing walls for practice like you do. I’d rather sleep.” Reassured, he grins at her and aims a punch at her bicep. It quickly devolves into a casual wrestling match which neither of them wins.

 

One of the days between lessons, Ace finds her and tells her to come with him, and of course his tone brooks no questions, but he leads her to the training rig with a slight weave to his step. He smells a little strange, some kind of sickly-sweet scent lingering around him. She’s known for a long time he likes his rotgut, but she’s never seen him tipsy on it before. It puts her hackles up in a way she never thought anything about Ace would. Maybe it’s just the scent?

They’re alone on the terrace, and it’s night, but the moon is fairly bright. If he weren’t wearing his goggles, she might be able to see his expression.

“All right, take it off.” He orders calmly.

Her eyes narrow, and the defiance comes out without her having to think twice, more or less instinctive. “You’d better be talking about the left arm.”

What the hell she thinks she has to back that up with, she doesn’t know, but it’s a moot point. She’s rewarded with an expression of slow blank surprise, and then visible sheepishness. He rubs at the lumps on his neck, and nods. “I meant the arm. If the straps break or the battery dies… well. You need practice without. In case.”

She blinks at him blandly, then her lips quirk, and she gives a silent little laugh, nodding and undoing the strap. She unclips the arm and hands it over, and she’s visibly alert, watching his body language, but the moment of tension between them collapses speedily. “Don’t get sand in the cup. Itches.”

He nods, ambling over to the control levers and putting her arm safely out of the way there. “Seen you mostly using the other arm. ‘S good. But you’ve made this thing so heavy your balance changes without it.” He’s got sharp eyes, apparently, even at the moment, where he’s a bit drunk.

He hefts her arm meaningfully, then sets it down with a plonk. “Right. Up you get…” He’s going to be hell at the controls, too, his own coordination slightly off today.

“Ah?” She hadn’t considered this, but she nods her understanding and hops up lightly to her perch along the body of the car. “Okay. You been drinking, boss?” It’s practically a rhetorical question.

“...Little. Maybe.” He pulls a cord and starts up the engine. He’s been drinking, and it was meant to be social fun, sharing his own private stock of rotgut, but boys will talk, and when their lips were loosened they started talking about the girl he’s been training up with the other Pups.

“Gonna tell me what happened?” Because something happened. She’s positive of that. He doesn’t do private lessons as far as she’s aware.

“...Wouldn’t do you no favors to hear it, girlie. You already know.” He leans on the controls and looks up at her, pale grey eyes apologetic. Her reaction to his slip of the tongue proved that to him; she knows full well other War Boys are aware she’s a War Girl. It just may be the first time he’s referred to her gender at all.

She’s not the only one, of course. But the other women in the armada are half-lifes by and large. And they all hide well. She’ll have to learn that, too.

“Someone’s been creepin’?” Furiosa frowns, but accepts this as an explanation. “Might as well tell ‘em there’s a line. Schlangers.”

He nods. “Can’t stop ‘em. Just keep working on that knockout left hook. And hold on.” He jerks a lever without warning, sending the cab tilting on the tracks.

She swings out wide, with a hiss of complaint, but manages to press herself back in again, scrambling to get a better foothold. There’s little enough place to hook her left arm around on the sleek side of the vehicle, but she presses the elbow into a divot in the metal for a sliver of extra traction.

He runs the rig fast and loose, making no allowances for this being her first time trying it without the prosthetic. When she falls off, he expects her to climb back up again, and where usually he calls out helpful suggestions for leverage and footholds, this time he’s got no advice because he doesn’t know how to do what she has to do, and he’s not going to pretend that he does. She’ll have to learn it by trial and error.

Eventually he calls a stop to the lesson, though, shutting down the rig and slumping over the controls. “If you want more practice like that, it’ll be another day.”

She’s tireless and undauntable, throwing herself into the lesson with no request for rest. When it’s over she’s a little scraped up and her left arm looks swollen, but she scrambles up the hood of the rig and kneels to peer through the windshield at him. “I do. Give me my arm back.”

She holds out her hand so he can hand it over through the open side window, but she’s looking at him thoughtfully. “Sick now?”

“Nah. Gets rougher ‘n that, out at War, with the explosions goin’ off all around…” He hands her arm back and then folds his arms across the controls, resting his chin on them. 

“Shame we can’t copy that in here… maybe we could hand the Pups not trainin’ some noisemakers…” His gaze is going a little distant. He’s not sick, but he’s ready to sleep it off. Possibly right there in the training rig.

“Uh-huh.” She peers skeptically at him, then slides to the ground. “Drink some water before you go to sleep. And don’t pass out in the sun, you’re not a lizard.”

He nods muzzily. “Give you a taste, when you come back from your first run out as Lancer. Nothing like it, you’ll see, when the drums start up and there’s a full fleet of engines roaring…” 

His eyes drift closed. 

She smiles and says no more, limping off on bruised ankles to arrange her own recovery. The next day she shows up with the stump of her arm wrapped up in bandages to ease the swelling, and her prosthetic slung across her chest instead. She does more or less the same things she always does, though, without complaint.

The next day at the lesson, Ace wears his dark goggles, and may be just slightly less gentle than usual, but it’s hardly the first time he’s had to plough through a hangover and probably won’t be the last either. He’s content to let her take her lessons with and without the prosthetic as she sees fit, and sneaks in extra practice for her when and where he can. A new lump forms beside the other one at his neck, and he gets a new scarification etched into his chest, the War Boy’s private brand of magic cures. They must work for him, because Ace doesn’t seem to ever need transfusions or suffer any ill effects. They’re just lumps, and he goes on teaching.

She doesn’t chase him down to ask for more lessons, but whenever he offers she accepts. Sensitive to how unusual it is of him to do this, she also refrains from mentioning it to anyone else, and for a long time no one is the wiser.

 

One day, though, there’s a big War Party gathered to deal with a clan of scavengers that’s been getting increasingly bold. Ace grants Furiosa and a couple of the other oldest Lancers-in-training permission to run lessons, and gives them a quick class in how to operate the training rig. 

Furiosa turns out to be as ruthless as a temporary teacher as she is as a scrapper, and the other trainees harass her afterward about how glad they’ll be to see Ace come back because at least he’d stop if they got run over. She just laughs, taking it as a compliment.

The War Party is gone for three days, but returns triumphant with a handful of wrecked vehicles in tow. There are fewer War Boys coming back than went out, of course. The young Lancers-in-training are often eager to see the return of the War party, even more than some, and to hear stories of who died historic.

Ace comes in towards the back of the party, large patches of once-white-painted flesh raw and bloodied and blackened from burns, but he’s upright and walking, stiff and sore and placid as ever.

When the party comes back in, she’s perched on a low terrace of rock, searching the survivors grimly, and deeply relieved to see Ace intact. She gives him a subtle nod, but doesn’t smile or wave; it’s not necessary.

He nods, and there’s a hint of something pleased in his expression. He’ll be asking her later how many Pups’ arms she broke in lessons, while he was away, because he knows her. The survivors are falling into a chaotic mass of greetings to those who were too sick or otherwise unable to go with the War Party, and Ace is gradually moving her way without any obvious intent to do so. 

One knot of War Boys exchanges a few jokes and guffaws, and then one of them shoves at Ace in the usual half-joking and half-challenging way. “...But not this one, enh? Shoulda seen it, planted the stick and swung right back up! Feckin’ coward!”

A couple of jeers commence, and there’s a limit to the kind of teasing Ace can allow to roll off his back without that adding fuel to the fire. He turns back with a frown. “Swung back up, and had another lance in hand until they were proper wrecked and no more trouble to the boss.” His rough voice has gone sober, cold.

“Stuff it, Ace. You’re already soft and squishy, no place in Valhalla for cowards.” The other War Boy jeers, and his fist aims a punch for Ace’s arm, that could be taken as almost friendly except that it’s deliberately aimed at the arm that’s badly burned. His smile is ugly, and he’s clearly spoiling to start a fight, still hopped up on adrenaline from the run.

Furiosa stirs on the ledge angrily, feeling like she definitely wants to cut in. She’s smart enough, though, to know that a little girl standing up for a big, strong War Boy isn’t going to make Ace look any better. So she crouches where she is, quivering with tension and half casting about for a way to interrupt that won’t lose face for him.

But Ace moves fast as the other War Boy comes in close, socking a fist to his gut and then, while he's doubling over, smashing the other man's face into his uprising knee. He's ready as one of the challenger’s friends leaps into the fray with a yell of rage, and this one Ace sidesteps so he can grab the arm that's coming his way. He twists hard with all his strength and there's a crack that turns the next yell into one of pain. A third War Boy is on his heels and Ace uses the one whose arm he's just broken to thrust bodily at him, knocking them both down.

Those War Boys may have had more friends, but Ace is ready again, hands loose and open, although he's panting now. His eyes glint and he scowls. The other Boys look at the brawny figure that's a head taller than most of them, burned and bloody and clearly ready to dole out the same, and suddenly none of them seems to want to be next in line for that. They settle, warily, and Ace draws himself up a little and shuts his mouth so he won't look like he's gasping for air. There's a moment of relative quiet while body language makes it all clear that the fight is over, and a groan from one of the War boys on the ground makes for unsubtle punctuation.

Ace gives a nod. "My moment'll come, the same as anyone else's, but there's no glory in a job poorly done." He turns his back on them then and walks away, limping just slightly. They let him go in silence. He’s headed for the cool quiet of the caves, whether to see the Sawbones or just nurse his wounds in private is hard to say. There are others wounded, and a War Boy with a broken arm, now, and that’s probably not going to go without consequences for Ace.

Furiosa sits again, watching until the chaos clears, and then she retreats quietly. It seems painfully unfair. She wonders if any of those War Boys who attacked him benefited from his teaching as Pups. Cold world they live in, but she’s known that for a while.

 

It’s a couple hours before she looks for him in the little garage where he likes to hole up. “Hey, boss. Welcome back.”

He’s heavily bandaged and he’s picked an isolated spot, but he’s working on getting a ruined tire off one of the wrecks they hauled in with them. His hands are stiff and he’s weary to the bone, but trying to sleep doesn’t seem like such a great idea right now and he’s not quite bad enough off to need to stay down in the hospital, although they’d probably let him. He gives her a nod. “Any trouble teaching?”

“Not a bit. They’ll be glad you’re back. They think I’m meaner. Dunno why, I just do what I think you’d do. Maybe I sound meaner doing it.” 

She wanders over and drops a little packet of fabric on the bench by him. It seems to be filled with about two spoonfuls of dry moss or lichen. “Here. This is good for burns.”

“Maybe you think I’m meaner ‘n I am…” He trails off, blinking at the packet, and picks it up gingerly. “What’re ya supposed to do with it?”

“Put it in water and let it soak until it swells up a little. Mix it with clean sand and put it where the sore is worst.” She taps her left arm. “I use it when this gets swollen.”

“...I’ll try it. Can’t make things worse.” He says gamely, and gives her a grateful nod. 

She nods back and leans in to give him a light bop of forehead-to-forehead, then turns to go. “See you tomorrow?”

He’s left blinking in bemusement, but he gives a little smirk and nods, unsure quite what to make of all this. He’s had favorites before, and she’s definitely one of them, but he doesn’t expect much in return. It’s not a small thing, really, to reach out and finally have someone reach back.

 

Furiosa attends Ace subtly while he heals, bringing him moss to soothe the burns and spending off-hours in the garage to help him. It probably won’t help the rumors beginning to circuate that there’s something more than mentorship going on, but she doesn’t care, and he seems slow to notice.

Once he’s back on his feet, there’s a last Lancer lesson or two, culminating in a road trip, driven by different War Boy. Furiosa, Morsov, and most of the others in their age group pass with flying colors. Now it’s only a matter of time before she can find a driver to take her on.

In the meantime, she’s been thinking, even as she works in the garage at Ace’s side.

“I have trouble getting the boys to spar with me,” she says one morning as she cleans an oil filter for him, pinning it with metal talons and deftly cleaning with her real hand. “The ones my age are scared. The bigger ones won’t take me seriously. Plus they’re stronger.” Scowl. She doesn’t like knowing the grown War Boys have twice her upper-body strength and probably always will. She’s sure there are ways around that, but how can she find them if she can’t practice and experiment? “You’re good. Can you teach me that?”

“You… want me ta’ find you fresh blood?” He grimaces, working at a hex nut that doesn’t want to budge, then grunts in annoyance when there’s a quiet crack. The hex nut falls to the floor still on the bolt, which has now cracked and broken off. “...Fukushima. Gotta replace the whole plate now…” 

If she was looking for upper-body strength, Ace’s biceps are at least as big around as her thigh. He’s slightly distracted grumbling over the engine, though.

Glory. Her eyebrows go up, and she rises to peer at what he’s just done, rethinking her proposal. Then again, if he can teach her to work around his strength, she can probably face anyone short of Rictus. So...he’s the perfect choice, then! Sure. “Uh...not quite what I was asking.”

The part he was working with is rusted, so it’s not as if he just broke new steel with his bare hands, but it’s still a startling demonstration. Ace rolls out from under the engine to switch the wrench for a screwdriver, but pauses to push up his goggles and regard her thoughtfully. “...What were you askin’?”

She’s visibly sheepish now, and if he laughed at her, her pride would be downright crushed, but she manages to get out the request again. “You’re always gonna be stronger and bigger. Most War Boys are, at least in the arms. I have to figure out how to get around that. I want to spar.”

On the other hand she should know Ace better than that by now, and he regards her with his usual sober thoughtfulness. “With, or without the arm?” While he isn’t afraid of her, precisely, he’d be a fool to overlook the personal risk that arm represents. Especially when he’s only just healed up from a hard battle. 

That he's taking her seriously is reassuring, and she doesn't hesitate with her answer. "Without. It's a weapon, isn't it? That's cheating."

Probably she should practice with it, too, actually, but she's practical enough to realize it's an advantage. One that can be taken from her, no less.

“...Yes ‘n no.” He cracks a smirk, and scratches behind one ear with the screwdriver now in hand. “I ain’t in a hurry ta’ get hit with it, anyway. And I… ain’t creepin’, but girls’re usually stronger in the legs. Just advice.” She’s not the first War Boy who wasn’t a boy that he’s trained or worked with, and he did teach her in staying on a moving vehicle himself. It’s a purely academic observation.

Ace lays down on the roller again, sliding back under the engine block to get the rusty plate off. “Guess that’d be all right. Might not wanta do it in a public arena, at first. In case you trounce me too bad. I got my pride.” If she wants to kick him for that crack, he’s in a vulnerable position right now.

"I know you're not a creeper." She means that. He's had every opportunity, drunk and sober, and anyway she's heard he turns down passes to see the comfort women. She figures either he'd rather have a fellow War Boy or he just isn't interested. Or maybe all the women around are too young, compared to him?

Whatever. It makes her feel safe, anyway. Safe enough to give him a light kick in the ankle for that tease. "Don't you go building me up just to show me how much I have to learn."

He gives a quiet chuckle from under the car. “I’ll go easy on you at first. Just for one round.” That’s probably not quite true, because he’ll be taking care not to do her any permanent harm just as he would any opponent who’s younger and much lighter. On the other hand his version of going easy on someone is usually still rough enough to give them good practice, if the way he trains Lancers is any indication. 

When she started lancer training, she told him not to go easy, and would have been offended if he had. Now, she won't complain, as long as it's just for the first round. She is very aware he's nearly a foot taller than her and probably more than double her weight.

 

It’s a couple of days before they have the chance, but there’s no vehicles urgently in need of work, and it’s early morning, when Ace nudges her awake with a little water and a hard grain bar for a quick breakfast. There are quiet spots, inside and just outside the Citadel, and he takes her to a big alcove against the outer base of a tower, with hard-packed sand from being used for sparring practice by hundreds of War Boys before. “Throwing sand is off limits. Pretty much anything else goes.”

She crunches the bar down voraciously, trying to wake up. He certainly wasn't obligated to feed her. She guesses it's a sign she's in for a rough start. "Anything? Even biting?"

She doesn't even know how to fight chivalrous, and sees no reason to learn.

It’s no secret that Ace likes her, albeit in a paternal sort of way, but it might just be practicality to get something in her before they wrestle for hours. The question has him making a face, though. “Already lookin’ to tear me up? Yeah, guess biting’s all right, just don’t take my ear off or anything?” He figures if she gets a kick into his groin then he’s not defending himself properly, so that’s fair game to try. Ace rolls his shoulders and stretches a little, trying to shake off a hint of stiffness that seems to creep in on his mornings, more recently. For a War Boy, he figures being the oldest just means it’s time to step up his game, not give in to minor nuisances.

She grins. "Nah, you brought me breakfast, I don't need to bite that hard."

She brought her arm with her, but hasn't bothered to put it on. Now she paces over to a rock and sets it there carefully, rolling her shoulders conscientiously through their full range of motion, then stretching each leg. Now that they're here, she's slightly nervous.

"Do we need a signal for when to stop?" She turns back to him.

“Two taps or call Mercy.” Ace shrugs, going through similar stretches, with a hint of a grimace. He’s left his goggles off, so the warning about not throwing sand is a fair one. There’s no point to either of them being rendered half blind for a few days. He pauses, then adds, “Ever tried punching a half-life in the lumps?” 

"Sounds good." She figures if he pinned her she could pass out from lack of breath before he noticed. A signal makes sense.

The question makes her pause, because that never even occurred to her, and for some reason her first instinct is to think that's unfair to the half-life. Maybe she's more chivalrous than she thought. "Does it hurt? I...never tried."

“Was about to tell you it’s a waste of time, actually… is on me,anyway.” He rubs at the ever-growing collection on his neck. “Can’t really feel ‘em. Just a tip, it’s wasted effort.” Since she’s a full-life, it occurred to him that she might either avoid them or target them, due to a lack of firsthand knowledge.

"Sounded kind of mean," she admits. "I wouldn't, sparring, unless the other guy was messing with my arm. If it's a waste, I won't bother."

“Guess it does, wasn’t sure if you’d been wasting punches there, before…” He shrugs, rolls his shoulders out again with a sigh, and moves out into roughly the center of the hard-packed ground. He’s ready to start if she is.

She steels herself, pacing to stand in front of him, just out of arm's reach. "Okay. Go."

Her stance is good; as stable as it could possibly be, and her first darting move, a feint at his midsection, shows she has some agility on her side.

Ace is nowhere near as light on his feet as she is, but on the other hand he barely reacts to the feint because he’s pretty sure he can take it if the blow lands. Instead he reaches for her, open-handed, aiming to more or less smack her in the ear. It’s a test, one she may or may not dodge since she’s still retreating from the feint and he has a long reach.

She manages to duck, but it leaves her a little off-balance, vulnerable if he tries something else.

That’s unfortunate because he keeps coming, his other arm swinging in lower from the side, as he lunges in a crouch. It’s just a punch to the ribs and he’s pulling his own strength, but it’s worth noting that the size difference means he has to work to hit her anywhere below the chest. What he’s actually waiting for is to see her go for his legs.

Interestingly, she's used to people going for her waist and side--usually to grab rather than to punch, though. She gives a wheeze, unable to dodge well, but grabs that wrist, pulls, and jabs her left elbow down in a sharp blow at his elbow joint.

It’s a good move that doesn’t depend much on the size of the fighters involved. and Ace gives a little grunt as his arm folds reflexively. She hasn’t actually hurt him, but she’s disabled that arm very briefly so it’s worth it. That also pulls them both in closer to each other, though, so he staggers a step and then sweeps out a foot to try to take her legs out, hoping to catch her before she tries it on him.

Somehow she wasn't expecting her target to be quite so hard. That hurt her elbow a little. She gets over it quick, though, by necessity. The leg sweep catches her and successfully tips her onto her back, but she kicks at his ankles when she goes down.

Some War Boys are more muscular than others, but Ace is older than most and he’s neither over nor underweight, just solid. It might be something about being settled into the far end of middle age, but he’s achieved a density of muscle that makes hitting him feel a little like punching a sandbag. She’s smart to go for the joints though, and he gives another little grunt and hops back when she kicks his ankle. The only thing that blow gives her is space, but she’s faster than he is, so she may have a chance to get back up again at least.

Lessons in being thrown off the Lancer training rig have taught her how to fall without hurting herself and how to get back up quickly. She puts them into practice now, scrambling back and rolling up to her feet again. She’s in a hurry to put space between them, though, not sure what to expect from him next and groping for ideas on how to knock down a tower of gristle twice her size.

It’s what she asked for, that’s for certain, but she’s not sure what to do with it now.

As a warm-up goes, it’s all right, but so far it’s almost as if he’s just playing with her. He’s testing, at the very least, and he’s slower but he knows she’ll be getting up before he can stop her so as soon as she’s on her feet he’s lunging, this time making a grab to pin her arms and pick her up. If he does manage to get a grip and make a throw-down, he’d better not sit on her.

His reach is far greater than hers, so he does succeed in picking her up, and she gives a yowl of outrage, riled. Her feet scrabble to kick him in the hip or thigh, and if he doesn’t drop her quick, he might just get a face-full of her forehead.

Holding onto her is risky and he knows it, but that wasn’t his ultimate goal. A few kicks, he can take, and then he bends and tries to spin her and drop her face-down, sliding his hands to catch her arms and pin them behind her. It’s a move that depends on brute strength as much as dexterity, but he knows where his advantage is so he’s going to use it.

He gets kicks, and then a flying knee that manages to miss his groin, but not for want of trying. Now she’s getting into the spirit of things, and after that one yelp she seems to have given up on noise, focusing. She twists and squirms like a snake in his grasp, tries to kick again on the way down, and pulls hard, especially with her left arm. It’s hard to hold onto, shorter and without the flare of wrist and hand at the end.

Now he grunts and gives a little jerk to protect his face, dropping to one knee to try to get her down. “That’s the Furiosa I know.” He murmurs, grappling to try to hold onto the shorter arm. Either his hands are still a little stiff this early in the morning, or she’s stronger and squirmier than he expected, because the moment he thinks he has her pinned, her left arm abruptly slips out of his grip.

She gives a little hissing sputter of anger; it would probably be a curse, except her face is a little too close to the sand to get coherent words out. Maybe it’s better he doesn’t know what she just tried to call him. The second her arm is free of his grasp, though, her elbow comes up in a jab toward his face.

There is, ever so briefly, a thought between her arm slipping free and the elbow contacting his face. It’s a thought somewhere along the lines of ‘Oh shi-!’ 

The noise he makes is probably rewarding, and he has pulled his head back instinctively but he still gets a fairly solid thunk on the jaw. His other hand remains solidly locked around her right arm, holding it twisted behind her back, and the sheer force of his weight pressing down on that arm will be hard to get out from under, but he’s definitely distracted.

She’s twisting again, trying to turn enough to see where she’s striking at. With his head turned away, she has to aim lower, aiming for his sternum or collarbone. Silence breaking again, she growls, and she’ll continue to jab at him until he finds a way to stop her.

For a moment his hand flails a little for her arm, fingers brushing against her clumsily while he recovers enough to actually look at what he’s doing. The stump of her arm aims at his collarbone and he moves, and what it collides with is squishier than any flesh she’d expect to find on him. He grunts anyway, but he did try to warn her there’s not much sensitivity in the tumors, and then he gets a hand on her left shoulder and shoves down, pinning it so her range with that arm becomes almost nil.

Even now, she’s not prepared to surrender, and it will take several minutes of writhing and kicking, even an attempt to bite his hand, before she realizes her strength is waning and she’s not going to get out of his hold like this. She stills gradually, knees gathered close to her body, jerks one last time, and then gives up with an angry huff. “Fine. Mercy.”

She might as well be spitting the words.

Immediately he releases her, rising quickly to get out of the way just in case sheer anger makes her lash out. “Not everybody gets a hit in, first try.” Standing back, Ace rubs his jaw a little, smiling ruefully.

She rolls over and glowers at him as she sits up, but then her lips quirk slightly. “You could’ve at least pretended it was an effort.”

She stays seated, catching her breath, thin chest heaving. Judging from the flush and tension, she’s still angry, but maybe not so much at him, now.

“I didn’t let you sock me in the jaw.” He’s looming, still standing, but there’s absolutely no menace in his body language. “Surprised you didn’t go for my legs, though…”

Now she’s fighting a smile. She didn’t expect to win the first bout. Even if she’s half-wild with adrenaline, still, she can’t help but be relieved she made a decent effort. She’d hate to disappoint him.

“You have so much more reach. I was afraid if I came in that close you’d grab me. I thought about trying to hook your ankle, but then I sort of...doubted I could pull you over.” She gets up slowly, dusty but none the worse for wear.

Ace gives a shrug. “Maybe, maybe not, but you’re faster ‘n me,” He expected that, really. “Stay low, aim for the legs, you’re stronger below the waist, but I’m top-heavy by comparison. Use it. I haveta’ bend down if you go low, and that makes my balance worse. Might not be fightin’ as many guys my height, but it’s still true as long as you’re shorter ‘n who you’re fighting.” He doesn’t mean to fall into the same tone she remembers from Lancer training, but he’s just a natural teacher. “Elbow hit was good. Go for joints, knees, elbows, ankles.”

She brushes dirt off her makeshift shirt, frowning, but she’s listening attentively, taking in the advice. “Okay. Only what do I do if I even get someone on the ground? There’s no way I could pin you like you did me.”

That’s a little frightening to think about. Suddenly, she’s very glad it’s Ace showing her this stuff.

“Well… you wanna know the dirty little tricks, or the stuff that’ll leave ‘em out of air and end it quick? Gotta put some force into that second type, but…” In a real fight, where her opponent is genuinely someone trying to kill her, those are good to know.

She raises an eyebrow at him. He has to ask? “Everything. I want to know everything.”

Ace gives a gravelly bark of a laugh, because he should have known better. “All right… well I said no sand in the eyes, but in a real fight the eyes are a good spot to aim for. Sand, punch, anything at all. Grabbin’ somebody’s nose and twisting hurts, too- and no,” He lifts a hand and smirks, tapping his own crooked nose with the other hand. “That ain’t what happened. Hurts, though, and it’s grabbable. If you don’t know enough to kick a man in the nadgers already, I’ll eat my own wrench. Slap somebody hard enough in the ear and it’ll buy you a few seconds, too. None of those are gonna do anybody real damage, but any of ‘em done right should give you an opening ta’ do something more.” 

“I tried, but only after you’d picked me up already.” She makes a face. If she’d connected, that would have been his own fault for not putting his crotch off-limits. “...someone told me once to bend fingers the wrong way, if anyone ever tried to grab me.”

‘Someone’ being Katy Concannon. Furiosa suffers a brief moment of mixed grief and nostalgia, wondering if Ace would have been friends with her initiate mother, in a better world. He’s doing almost the same job as she did, in a way.

He nods mildly, completely unbothered by the insinuation of her trying to hurt him because that is the point of a fight, after all. “That’s a good one too. Can be harder to grab their fingers, though. Now the big ones, you gotta put force behind… and don’t go practicin’ on me.” He drops to one knee though, beckoning her closer.

It says something about their relationship that she goes right to him, trusting. This is not to say she’s not tense, even shaky, but that’s adrenaline, and when she’s in reach she drapes the nub of her arm over his bicep lightly.

Ace reaches for her right hand, and places it on his own chest, sliding it down so she can feel the sternum and where it ends. “You feel that? The flat bone the ends there?”

“Yeah.” She nods. “Covers up your heart and lungs.” She doesn’t know the anatomical term, but she’s seen a few skeletons, human and animal. She can picture it.

He nods, and if he knows a name for it he doesn’t say, but his own anatomical knowledge is a little slim. “‘Nother War Boy like you I was teachin’ once,” He means a War Girl, really, but they’re all the same in his eyes, “Said it weren’t fair men are just a slab of muscle up front. I guess most boys think they are, too, so they don’t try ta’ hit there much and they don’t defend it, neither. But you hit here, and you hit here hard, and you’ll bust half a man’s ribs. Might need somethin’ in your hand ta’ do it proper, but you remember that in case you ever need it. Still oughtta knock the air out of ‘em good, if you hit there hard, but it’s gotta be the right spot.”

“A War Boy like me?” She repeats, but she knows exactly what he means, and it gives her something to think about. Her gender has never been a secret. She grew up among girls; she wouldn’t know how to pretend not to be one. But she knows there are others around who keep better hidden. Wonders if he’s kept their secrets, and if there’s any risk to him in so doing.

She can think about it further later, though. She presses over his sternum with the heel of her hand and nods. “I’ll remember.”

He just nods, and it’s a sign of how little her gender matters to him that he doesn’t linger on the physical gender differences any more than that. It would only be a girl who’d make such a complaint, though, due to the physical contrast. “Hits to the neck are the other thing, pretty much anywhere on the neck’ll do some hurt, some spots worse’n others, but another spot if you have a chance to aim, is right here.” He’s let go of her hand, but puts two fingers to the pit at the base of his throat. “Small spot, but there ain’t much but skin between the windpipe and gasping for air, there.”

She grimaces, because that she can easily imagine hitting with enough force to cause damage. Remembering something else from when she was very small, she pinches all of her fingers and thumb together, lining up the ends so that it creates a pointy shape, rather than a fist. She touches the tips to her own throat, considering. Yeah, that might be effective.

Watching her, he nods. “Like I said, don’t go practicin’ those on me, but keep ‘em in mind in case you ever really need ‘em.” His pale gaze is sober, because they meet their enemies in hand to hand combat less often, but he also knows the danger of lurking strangers in Gastown or the Bullet Farm, threats she’s been less exposed to but that can be met unexpectedly, when one isn’t geared up for battle.

“Will do, boss,” she answers him, just as seriously. She hasn’t come as far as she has in the ranks just to get killed by a stranger.

He smiles and pats her shoulder. “I ain’t your boss anymore, you know… just another Lancer.”

She looks thoughtful. “...guess not. But I’m kind of used to it now. It’s going to take some adjustment.”

“Enh. I’m just plain ol’ Ace.” He pats her again and stands, stretching. “Ready to whup me, this time?”

“Ready, but that doesn’t mean it’ll happen.” She smirks and backs off, stretching and flexing her left arm. It’s going to be very sore later, but the wealth of information she’s getting will make it worthwhile.  
Ace nods, moving into position, and he’s a little faster and less lumbering this time just because he’s warmed up, but he’s still not as fast as she is. On the other hand he’s a hell of a lot more experienced, bigger and stronger. Once again he lets her make the first move.

The first bout plus the conversation seems to have broken down her unwillingness to attack him. She lunges in faster this time, and with a better sense of direction and purpose. As he suggested, she goes for knees and ankles and even strikes at his hip joints with her elbows. She’s quickly developed a reliance on that left elbow; oddly enough, she uses the right with equal ferocity.

He was definitely holding back, before, but he did say he’d go easy on her for just the first round. There’s still a strong probability that he’s pulling his blows, but that doesn’t mean he’s gentle, either. A ringing slap to the side of her head makes an apt demonstration about the tactic he mentioned earlier, briefly stunning her, and he twists and angles his body to let some of her strikes land on parts of his body that feel like solid meat and get no reaction from him beyond a grunt. That’s not to say she’s doing badly, though, and she actually starts to take him down to one knee a few times. 

What he may notice most is her utter relentlessness. She absolutely refuses to call ‘Mercy’ for long minutes after he’s got her hopelessly pinned, continuing to writhe and pull and try, and if a blow stuns her, she’s back on her feet as soon as she can be, daring him to try it again. In the end, she’s far more likely to injure herself than he is to hurt her, but he may have to be the one to call it quits even after she’s visibly worn out.

When they started, their little alcove was in a pool of shadow, but the sun is creeping in when Ace taps her twice and staggers up to his feet, and offers her a hand up for good. “Enough for today, I got some future Blackthumbs to teach…” He rubs his hip, which is not a spot he ever expected her to go for, and therefore where he got hit twice before he learned his lesson. It didn’t hurt much, the first time.

She’s shaky, and probably needs some water and rest before she’s good for anything further, but she grips his hand firmly. “Again sometime, though? Thank you.”

“Sure, but give me a couple days? No fair beating on bruises.” He smiles gently. “You’d better get somethin’ more to eat.”

She gives him that fierce, semi-feral look she gets when she’s sorting out goals and plans, but then she smiles and bumps shoulders with him gently. “Yeah, okay. Ace.”

He wraps an arm around her shoulders gently and gives a little squeeze, then lets go and leads the way back in. He’s not limping but his hand keeps straying to rub his hip, and that might be the only win she has today, but there will be other days.


End file.
